The driver stopped smiling.
Rook held the badge between two fingers.
The name printed on it was Daniel Mercer.
His younger brother.
Daniel had died six years earlier after working for the county’s youth transportation office.
The official report said he suffered a heart attack while driving home.
Rook had never believed the whole story.
Security moved between him and the driver.
“Sir, step back.”
Rook did.
The driver did not.
He turned toward the exit.
Caleb grabbed Rook’s vest.
“That’s him.”
“Who?”
“The man who moved me last time.”
The librarian stared at the driver.
“Your paperwork says this is your first pickup here.”
Caleb shook his head.
“No. He uses different names.”
Police were called.
The white van remained outside.
The second child inside was released by a library employee before the driver could reach it.
He was fourteen-year-old Mason Reed.
His placement file showed he was supposed to be three counties away.
Nobody could explain why he was sitting in Fort Smith.
Then officers searched Caleb’s backpack.
The black tracker was not the only thing hidden inside.
Beneath the inner seam was a folded strip of paper covered in numbers.
Rook recognized Daniel’s handwriting immediately.
Dates.
Vehicle numbers.
Placement addresses.
And beside several names, one word:
RETURNED.
Caleb whispered:
“I found that in my old room.”
The room had belonged to another foster child before him.
Daniel had apparently hidden the paper there years earlier.
Rook looked at the five addresses on Caleb’s card.
They matched locations in Daniel’s list.
Every one was connected to the same private contractor.
Arkansas Family Transit.
The driver finally spoke.
“You people have no idea what that list means.”
Rook looked at him.
“Then explain it.”
The man gave his real name.
Stephen Vale.
He had worked with Daniel.
According to Vale, the transport company had been billing the county for emergency foster relocations that never happened.
Children were moved repeatedly between approved addresses for a few hours or overnight.
Each transfer generated new transportation charges, temporary placement fees and administrative reimbursements.
Some foster families cooperated.
Others did not even know their addresses were being used.
Caleb’s face went pale.
“That’s why they kept moving me?”
Vale looked away.
Rook’s voice hardened.
“You tracked him to keep the paperwork straight.”
Vale said nothing.
That was enough.
Police searched the van.
Inside were seven county badges under different names.
Three blank placement forms.
Photocopies of identification documents.
And Daniel Mercer’s old employee access card.
Rook stared at it.
“What happened to my brother?”
Vale finally looked afraid.
“Daniel found the billing records.”
“Then?”
“He copied them.”
Rook stepped closer.
Security did not stop him this time.
“Then?”
Vale swallowed.
“He was going to report everything.”
Caleb clutched Rook’s sleeve.
Vale looked toward the police officers.
“Daniel’s death wasn’t a heart attack.”
The room went silent.
Rook’s face emptied.
Vale continued.
“He collapsed after drinking coffee at the dispatch office.”
One detective frowned.
“The autopsy found cardiac failure.”
Vale nodded.
“Because nobody tested for what was in the cup.”
Rook’s scarred hands began shaking.
“Who gave it to him?”
Vale looked toward the librarian’s desk.
On Caleb’s folded list, one name had been written at the very bottom.
Not a child.
Not a driver.
County Youth Services Director Margaret Hale.
Vale whispered:
“She still runs the program.”